It was a warm midsummer night, and the sharp scent of gunpowder and ash permeated the air. Bullets hurtled from one end to the other under the full moon, the unmistakable crack of gunfire echoing across this particular stretch of the ruined German autobahn and the thick forest that bordered it, yells and jeers coming from both sides of the firefight as both human and Doll alike participated in what was perhaps humanity's longest-enduring tradition.
War.
Since time immemorial, humans had gathered into groups and spilt blood over differences and perceived slights, fighting for whatever cause they believed in. Every conflict the world had ever seen, every battle waged upon this earth, every minor conflict or skirmish that was ever conducted; all these, at their core, could be boiled down into the assertion of one's ideologies and beliefs over the other side.
No matter the situation, this truth was undeniable.
Whether it be in a conflict waged by desperate nations for resources, religious crusades, or even defensive battles to protect one's home and livelihood, war is but another form of discourse born through humanity's struggle to discern right from wrong.
For the common foot soldier however, such platitudes stood not at the forefront of reasons why they engage in what seemed like senseless violence to the common man.
For some, it was simply their duty.
To kill in the service of one's cause, and to make the ultimate sacrifice for one's people. For some, this was their raison d'être. From a mechanic working as a cog within the Rossartrist war machine, to even Tactical Dolls in the employ of the Soviet Union, this was their reason for existence. Bound by honor and patriotism, some could make difficult decisions without even a single hint of discontent.
But such a school of thought was uncommon, especially for the common man.
Some fought for financial stability, hoping to escape from the chains of poverty and earn their way into a respectable education through the government's coffers.
Some fought for the safety of their friends and families, for the continued prosperity of their homeland, hoping to defend them and their interests against the enemy.
Some may even fight for the sake of fighting; committing violence in the hope of satisfying some baser instinct instilled by Mother Nature upon all her children in the spirit of competition.
No matter their reason for fighting, for them, duty and cause went hand in hand. Especially for Dolls built for servitude and modified for war.
"—Reloading!" A blonde Doll in white and navy blue called out from behind a concrete barrier, her delicate but austere features marred by dirt and sweat as the steady staccato of 7.62mm bullets from her side of the battlefield accompanied her small reprieve from the battlefield.
Dressed in a uniform reminiscent of a flight attendant which hugged the contours of her body well, FG42 would've been a pleasant sight for any Commander working for Griffin & Kryuger, both as eye candy and as an operator. Calm and collected, the blonde brought plenty of firepower to any battlefield with the precision of a veteran surgeon, all without the cost; the woman capable of performing her tasks efficiently even under high-stress situations without any change in expression.
As such, with her being paired to an effective Echelon, never had she truly experienced true helplessness.
Never had she felt defeat so close by, waiting to engulf her and her entire Echelon within its jaws and swallow them whole.
With the situation she and her Echelon had found themselves in however, she may very well find out.
While her back leaned against the weathered concrete that defended her from enemy fire, her Digimind was working overdrive, desperately juggling multiple actions as she sought to find a way out of this situation while reloading her weapon at the same time.
Open bolt.
—What if she pushed forward?
It obviously wouldn't work, the T-Doll concluded, crimson ichor trickling down from a graze just above her temple.
They were already struggling as is. With such a heavy concentration of enemy contacts just a hundred meters away in the forest, they were outnumbered and outgunned. If she stepped out of cover, she'd get shot to pieces and the Echelon would lose a force multiplier they would never be able to regain in the span of this particular engagement.
Release empty magazine.
—What if she switched positions?
Within a fraction of a second, her eyes glided from Mk46, who was firing from another concrete barrier just five meters from her position, to C96, who was trying to stabilize their Commander.
Her gaze wandered from EVO 3—the redhead attempting to pierce through the enemy's attempt at jamming and hopefully call for reinforcements—to HK33, who was taking precise shots at the enemy.
They all had to move. They were sitting ducks.
The question was how?
The concrete barriers that separated the autobahn from the lightly-irradiated woods and the overturned MRAP they used before they were ambushed were the only thing keeping FG42 and her Echelon from being riddled with bullets.
Insert fresh magazine.
She had to wait. She had to trust in her Echelon, in her Commander.
Send bolt forward.
After all, that was the only thing she could do at this point.
Resume fire.
In seconds, FG42's firearm was ready for battle once again as the Doll began opening fire on the silhouettes that were firing upon their position from the tree line, joined by her peers as they defended the MRAP they were in just a minute before.
"C96, the Commander?!" FG42 asked, sparing a glance to the platinum blonde by her side as she sent another burst of 7.92mm Mauser at the enemy, the slight crack in her voice betraying the trepidation that had consumed most of her emotive programming.
"P-Pupils are unresponsive, it must be a concussion! He needs proper care, I don't have a First-Aid Module capable of— Oh, shit!"
The whistle and pop of incoming rounds cut C96's response short as the Handgun scrambled for cover, prompting FG42 to return fire, her eponymous weapon system going cyclic as she did so.
As she managed the recoil and peered through the aperture of her iron sights, she could see the enemy scatter as the massive bullets she sent their way found their mark, her targets' falling silhouettes and the resulting mist of what was probably blood or coolant unmistakable even in the dark.
But, with the muzzle flashes in the distance and the percussive resonance of return fire, she could tell that her efforts weren't enough.
There were just too many of them.
"EVO 3! Status?!" She yelled amidst the rancorous din of gunfire, her words kept short and to the point in order to preserve processing power.
"No good! I can't get through! Zener, radio, everything's down!!" The redhead in glasses exclaimed, a grimace on her face as she fumbled with the spare radio they had brought just in case. Disheveled and with one lens cracked beyond repair, the SMG gave the device one last once-over, before finally dropping it on the ground and picking up her weapon.
"We can't take much more of this, 42! We need to go!" EVO 3 remarked, frazzled as she took cover behind a concrete barrier.
"—Yeah, no shit, Sherlock! Tell us something we don't know!" Mk46 interjected, the green-haired Machine Gun's reply almost imperceptible amidst the sudden barrage of supersonic ammunition flying towards their position.
Insulted by the sudden lip from the usually-unflappable Machine Gun, EVO 3 poised for a biting retort, but a bullet did it for her before she ever could.
"F-FUCK! I-I got hit!"
"—Scheiße." Having heard Mk46's exclamation of pain, FG42 swore for the first time since the fighting had begun.
They couldn't take much more of this.
The enemy was getting closer. They were gaining ground, and soon, even suppressive fire wouldn't be enough. They needed something to level the playing field, something that could reset the conditions and allow them to take the fight to the enemy.
But they didn't have anything like that. They had no Fairies for air support, no heavy ordnance to pummel the enemy to submission, no Commander to guide their efforts.
They were on their own.
As ash and smoke from their smoldering MRAP filled the air, FG42 grimaced, and resolved herself for a final stand.
If they wanted their Commander to escape, someone had to be left behind. And for FG42, if it meant the survival of her beloved Commander, she'd gladly stay and fight, even if it would mean her eventual destruction.
She just hoped he'd stop acting so indecisive and finally answer her feelings once he returned to base.
"—INCOMING!
HK33 called out, her voice shrill with worry as the silver-haired Assault Rifle stopped firing and dove into the ground for cover.
FG42's blood immediately went cold, her grim resolution now replaced by fear and trepidation as her eyes widened at sight of the weapon system held by a human insurgent from behind a pine tree 70 meters away.
Developed at the turn of the century, the NLAW was a standard fire-and-forget anti-tank weapon designed for infantry use, capable of penetrating 500mm of conventional armor with standard HEAT configurations. It was a common weapon, especially in lawless regions within the countries that used to be part of NATO, with millions having been made to supplement Rossartrist infantry during the course of the war. As such, it came to no one's surprise that they would find these weapons in the hands of local insurgents and bandits, who now used these weapons to great effect against civilian vehicles.
It was also the very same weapon that had served as the prelude to this ambush they had found themselves in, the very same weapon system that had overturned their vehicle and severely injured her beloved Commander.
But for FG42, that didn't matter.
In this brief moment, even victory and defeat were the furthest thing from her mind.
Her safety wasn't even in the equation.
All she could think of was her beloved Commander as the HEAT rocket launched from the NLAW hurtled towards their position like a harbinger of death, promising oblivion's cold embrace as its potent mix of fuel made it accelerate to more than 200 meters per second.
She may have taken this job to serve and protect those who cannot protect themselves, and she may have even relished the thought of fighting for such a noble duty; repeatedly honing herself in the pursuit of perfection just to be able to make such a goal come to fruition.
But should the Commander that had taken her this far perish, then everything was for naught.
After all, what use was her duty without the cause that drove it?
"COMMANDER—!"
FG42 screamed before being drowned out by the thunderous boom of the NLAW's payload detonating in midair, diving in order to shield her Commander from the blast as rocks and dust were kicked up into the air.
Girls' Frontline: Echelon 13
Phase 1: "Broken Sanctuary"
Note: Been a while, boys and girls. Comment and review if you can. I'd love to hear your thoughts. Echelon 13 updates every Sunday.